


Deferred Gratification

by starrysummernights



Series: As the Summer Rains Fall [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Awkward Sexual Situations, Boys Kissing, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Omega Sherlock Holmes, Omega Verse, Scenting, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22063717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: “No.” John said firmly. “Absolutely godsdamn not.”“You must at least entertain the idea-““No, I don’t. You said.” John growled. “You said I wasn’t supposed to do anything like that and now all of a sudden it’s fine and it’s not. It’s not fine.”“Believe it or not, John, but I am not all powerful. I cannot reverse my mother’s decision. Do you really want to go against the Queen on this issue? So publicly?”“What do you mean?”“How will it look? You are being asked to scent your future Consort and you not only refuse, but evoke your patronage to prevent it. It....places you in a delicate situation. It looks as if you detest your Omega...that you detest Sherlock.”“You know that’s not-”“I know my brother. He will be embarrassed. No matter what face he may present to you, he is already ashamed because he hasn’t had a heat, and everyone is putting so much pressure on him. For you to reject him so publicly…” Mycroft spread his hands.John glared. “You know what that kind of a scenting is like. You know what they're really asking me to do."“Yes.”John stared at him, silent, his fists clenched at his sides.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: As the Summer Rains Fall [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/672899
Comments: 435
Kudos: 447





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I didn't finish the previous installment but I've written this and here we are.

In January, the Omega Crown Prince celebrated his sixteenth birthday.

All of Northumbria celebrated with him. There were the usual festivities and merriment all across the country which always accompanied his birthdays, but the most elaborate revelries were held in the capitol city of Marseille. Bonfires were lit on every street corner. Lights blazed from the front gates, along the streets, all the way up to the palace. Priests performed ceremonies to bless the Omega Crown Prince and people packed into the temples to add their own prayers to the rites, lighting candles and chanting time-honored prayers. Outside, people gathered in large crowds, roasting whatever foods they could find that would fit on a stick, calling out to one another. Music played. Jokes were told and laughter surged over the murmur of the crowd. Dances were held in the squares and impromptu dances broke out in the middle of the streets, couples whirling around and around. Presents were given and arms were thrown around each other, backs slapped and good will spread to one and all. It was the middle of winter and cold, but everyone bundled up, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, and their breath fogged in the air as they drank warm, mulled wine which was sold on every street corner. No one thought of staying inside on the Prince’s birthday.

The more prominent citizens of Marseille- guild leaders, rich merchants, and nobles- were invited to the Palace for a royal celebration. They brought expensive gifts for their future Consort…and curious eyes to witness the Omega which had been on everyone’s mind the last year.

Because throughout Marseille, throughout the whole country, even while the citizens happily commemorated their Crown Prince’s birthday by downing glass after glass of wine, tongues wagged. Eyebrows were raised. Looks were exchanged. Rumors, which had originated in the Court last year, had bled down into the city. The whispers about the Crown Prince grew like weeds: intrusive and choking and ugly.

The Omega Crown Prince was now _sixteen years old_, the people said. He was a young man. He would marry the Alpha Prince in two years.

Why, the people asked each other in scandalized tones, hadn’t the Crown Prince had his first heat yet?

Both inside and outside the palace, it was a topic frequently talked about. The Crown Prince should’ve had his first heat years ago. Most Omegas experienced their first heat when they turned thirteen. Occasionally, a few wouldn’t have a heat until their fourteenth year.

But rarely did an Omega not experience a heat before they turned fifteen.

The Omega Crown Prince was now _sixteen years old_…and he’d never had a heat. Not one.

_Why_?

What was wrong with him?

It didn’t bode well. What would happen, the people questioned, if he _never_ had a heat? Ever? It was an unimaginable scenario, but a common fear.

What was wrong with him, the people wondered. Was Crown Prince Sherlock defective? Had the alleged un-Omega activities that the Alpha Prince encouraged him in damaged him in some unseen way? After all, everyone knew that no Omega should take up a sword, ride a horse, be knowledgeable in the ways of the wide world the way the Crown Prince was. Had all that information harmed him? Had it prevented him from having a heat?

Was he now mutilated? Marred? Soiled?

No one had any real answers; but of course, everyone knew of someone to whom the same thing had happened. They told the story in hushed tones which fitted the drama of the moment- unable to provide names or dates or any factual information- of an Omega who’d done things they shouldn’t and then never had a heat.

Crown Prince Sherlock, they whispered, was the same way. He may never have a heat. He may be a broken Omega. Prince John would be better to go back home and choose someone else as his mate because he would never be able to mate with Prince Sherlock properly. It created instability in the country. If Crown Prince Sherlock were damaged as an Omega, who would inherit the throne? There was the Alpha Duke Moriarty, but-

The people crossed themselves, making the sign against evil on their breast. They murmured a prayer to their goddess, asking for intervention to heal the Crown Prince Omega and restore him to all that he should be, glancing up to the gleaming palace soaring above them and wondering how the Prince celebrated his birthday…and when he would have his first heat.

* * *

“What is your opinion on our current situation, poppet?”

Mycroft had been remembering the way Gregory looked that morning, spread out on the bed, his head thrown back, moaning while Mycroft tongued at the head of his cock. The sound of his mother’s voice was as potent as a bucket of ice-cold water dashed over his ardor and Mycroft sipped at his wine to hide his inattention. “Ma’am?”

“Do not play dumb, Mycroft. It doesn’t suit you. You know to what I am referring.” The Queen snapped. “What do you think about Sherlock?”

Mycroft looked to where his little brother was speaking with John Watson across the room. Sherlock had grown in the past three months, tearing through different outfits like a weed and giving the palace tailors grey hairs. He was of John’s height now, Mycroft was amused to see, but he was gawky and awkward, all elbows and sharp edges. Mycroft was forever after him to stop _hunching_ and straighten his shoulders.

But Mycroft knew his mother wasn’t asking about Sherlock’s posture.

“It’s worrisome.” He admitted. “I admit that, despite our talks, I wasn’t too concerned until earlier this year. I assumed he was a late-bloomer. Or maybe the stresses of the Scottish Court’s visit last year unnerved him and delayed his heat. But now…” Mycroft trailed off, shrugging his shoulders as John Watson smiled at Sherlock, absorbed in what he was saying and attentive. John held both their wine glasses in his hand. He hadn’t left Sherlock’s side the entire evening. No one could accuse John Watson of being an inattentive Alpha.

“Why?” Mycroft asked. “Has John said anything?”

“No.” The Queen shook her head. “He is an easygoing Alpha. We both know that. And he is besotted with our little Sherlock. You chose well for your brother, poppet.” She gifted Mycroft with a smile and his heart fluttered, even while lead settled in the pit of his stomach. He quickly looked away from his mother. “He is dedicated to Sherlock.” Queen Holmes continued. “But the same thoughts must have gone through his mind, as they have ours. Their wedding is fast approaching. It cannot happen if Sherlock doesn’t have a heat.”

Mycroft wanted to argue with her. He wanted to say that Sherlock was young, there was still time. But he knew that the people were talking. They were worried that something was wrong. Sherlock was old enough now to be having a heat. Mycroft himself had received a letter from King Watson just last month inquiring as to the health of the Crown Prince, in such language that made it clear what he was really asking. Mycroft bit his lip.

“What do you think should be done, ma’am?” He asked, because it was obvious that Queen Holmes had a plan in mind. He dreaded hearing what it was. He knew he wouldn’t like it.

Queen Holmes gave Mycroft another smile, brittle and cold, before nodding toward Sherlock and John. “I think some changes need to be made their chaste little arrangement.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Please don’t make me drink that again. Please. It’s disgusting.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but your Queen mother wishes it.” Mrs. Hudson placed the innocuous looking cup of tea on Sherlock’s bedside table. Her lips were pinched in disapproval. It was clear she didn’t agree with what the Queen mother wished, but no one had asked her opinion.

Sherlock took the cup of ginseng tea, brewed specially in the kitchens by one of the doctors his mother had recently taken on to “cure him” of his lack of heat. He wrinkled his nose, the amber liquid sloshing thickly at the sides. The smell made his mouth start to water in preparation to throw up and he glanced at Mrs. Hudson who gave him a pitying look before he forced himself to take the tiniest of sips.

He gagged.

“None of that, dear.” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “You’ve got to get it down. Just take it all in one gulp. That’s the best way.”

“Can’t we just toss it out the window?”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “The doctors will know if you don’t drink it all.”

“It’s like mummy doesn’t trust me.” Sherlock stared into the amber depths of the cup. He’d drank ginseng tea every morning and night for the past week since his birthday celebration. It was terrible: bitter, earthy, and unsweetened because even the smallest amount of sugar would negate the natural healing properties of the root. Sherlock would rather drink his own piss than another cup of the disgusting tea.

But not drinking it wasn’t an option. Queen Holmes had ordered him to drink the tea which was supposed to have healing effects on Omegas and could- most importantly- induce a heat.

Sherlock took another sip, forcing himself not to retch. He wanted to have a heat. He wanted to be normal. He was tired of everyone talking about him and saying there was something wrong with him.

He wondered if John thought there was something wrong with him too.

The thought lowered his spirits even more and he took another gulp of the tea, shuddering as it went down.

“There you go, dear.” Mrs. Hudson encouraged, hovering with an empty bowl in case it all came back up again.

Sherlock took a large swallow, trying to down the tea as quickly as possible. His stomach rebelled and he bent over, clutching at it and clenching his teeth, using all of his concentration to keep from vomiting. He clapped a hand over his mouth and breathed steadily in and out through his nose. He would not throw up, he would not throw up, he would not throw up…

Desperately, he tried to think of something to take his mind off his predicament and thought of-

John.

If John _did_ think there was something wrong with Sherlock, he never mentioned it. But then, they never talked about Sherlock’s heats at all, or the lack of them, or even that one day they’d be married. All their conversations were about safe topics- music, sports, sword training, plays, debates, the books they were reading, Sherlock’s lessons- and never about anything more…intimate.

Sherlock wondered what it would be like to talk about more intimate things with John. John’s face flashed in his mind, smiling at him, accompanied by the sense memory of his musky, rich Alpha scent and the familiar warmth of his body, his calloused hands touching Sherlock’s-

Sherlock’s heart fluttered. He blushed and tried to think of something else. The tea burning up his esophagus, trying to make a second comeback, made it easy to do.

“Just a few more swallows should do it. Come on, dear. Just a few more.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and guzzled at the tea, again and again, not stopping to let himself taste the noxious liquid, not even letting himself breathe until it was all gone and Mrs. Hudson plucked the cup out of his fingers with a triumphant cry.

“Very good! There’s that done, thank the gods.”

Sherlock groaned, pressing a hand to his mouth to keep it all in. “I don’t know how much more of that I can take.”

“It’s just until you have your first heat.”

That’s what Sherlock was worried about: what if he never had a heat?

His bath was already waiting in the corner, steaming hot, and Sherlock eased his way into the water, checking and double-checking to make sure that Mrs. Hudson was turned around with her eyes covered as he did.

“The way you carry on.” Mrs. Hudson huffed. “It’s like I haven’t been bathing you all your life. I changed your nappies when you were a baby but the way you carry on, you’d think I’d never seen your little fiddle.”

Sherlock’s lecture on how it was different for his nanny to see him naked when he was two versus when he was sixteen derailed completely. “Please, don’t call it that.” He snapped. “Or _little_.” His face flamed with a blush when Mrs. Hudson tittered and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Men are all the same, whether they’re Alphas or Omegas. They’re always so obsessed with the size of their- and what would you rather I call it then? Your jigglestick?” She asked slyly. “I want to be sure I have the right terminology for your comfort. Your worm? Your noodle?”

“Oh, gods.” Sherlock ducked his head beneath the water, staying there until his lungs screamed for air before resurfacing in time to catch-

“-or your iron rudder? Your pike?”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Your thingamabob?”

“What on earth are the two of you talking of?”

Sherlock whipped around in the bath, sloshing water everywhere, to glare at his older brother. “Privacy, Mycroft!”

Mycroft heaved a sigh as if Sherlock had just asked him to lasso the moon and bring it down for him. “I don’t know where all this ‘privacy’ nonsense has suddenly come from. I have seen you in the bath almost every day since you were born. I helped change your nappies, you know.”

“Why does everyone insist on reminding me that they changed my nappies?” Sherlock cried, but Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft ignored him.

“We were just discussing what to call Sherlock’s bits.” Mrs. Hudson said in a prim, matter-of-fact tone. “He objected to my vocabulary and I want to get it right. I’m already shouted at all day by His Highness of Adolescent Crankiness and I’ve just about had enough of it.”

“Gregory tells me that his soldiers are particularly fond of calling their things their ‘basket of meat’, or sometimes their ‘yogurt spitting sausage’-“

“Urgh.” Sherlock pulled a face. “That is disgusting. If I were you, I’d kick an Alpha out of my bed if he called his thing that-“

Mycroft colored. “I didn’t say _Gregory_ called his thing that! I said his _soldiers_-”

“And I’m in the bath, naked!” Sherlock reminded the room at large. “Other people are given privacy when they’re naked and I’m supposed to have the same.”

“You’re the Omega Crown Prince. Privacy isn’t a luxury you can indulge in.” Mycroft said, but he joined Mrs. Hudson behind the screen where Sherlock could see their shadows and hear them speaking, but was protected from their eyes. “You know, most noble Omegas have five or six Omegas-in-waiting. Mummy’s already been tossing around a few names of Omegas whose family’s are particularly loyal and who may do for companions for you.”

“I don’t need Omegas-in-waiting.”

“You may not have a choice, little brother.”

“I’ll tell John about it. And,” Sherlock shuffled down in the bath, sullen, and crossed his arms over his chest, “I don’t need a name for my prick either.”

“I’ll remind you,” Mycroft poked his head around the screen, “of a certain little boy who snooped through my very personal possessions once and therefore-“

“That was years ago and I apologized!”

“-and therefore has no room to be bleating about for respecting the sanctity of privacy.” Mycroft finished succinctly. Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him.

“If you and Mrs. Hudson won’t leave me alone, I’ll tell John about this.” It had become Sherlock’s favorite threat over the years. It usually worked wonderfully. Only this time, Mycroft smirked.

“Yes, by all means. Go and tell John.”

Sherlock glared. He hated when his brother called his bluff. Mycroft knew very well that Sherlock could not discuss private matters with John, and that included Sherlock’s bathing schedule and who was and was not allowed in the room with him. If the subject included Sherlock’s body or Sherlock being in any way, shape, or form unclothed, it was not a subject he could bring himself to discuss with John.

“Once you’re finished throwing your little hissy-fit-“

“I am not throwing a hissy-fit!” Sherlock shouted, lobbing his wet, soapy cloth at Mycroft’s face but it unsuccessfully fell to the floor with a wet smack.

“- we have something to discuss.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. “What? What do we have to discuss?”

“Finish your bath first.” Mycroft disappeared behind the screen again and Sherlock hurried to wash, his mind whirring with the possibilities. None of them seemed good.

He was washed and dressed in record time and once he and Mycroft were seated across from each other with cups of (good) tea and biscuits, Mycroft explained.

“Mummy has ordered for the palace physicians to examine you.”

“Examine me? What does that mean- examine me?”

Mycroft waved his hand. “She thinks that if the Head Physician, Templeton, examines you, he may be able to offer a solution as to why you haven’t yet had a heat.”

“She thinks there’s something wrong with me.” Sherlock balled his hands into fists, feeling the sting. “And you do too.” He continued, his voice wobbling. “You think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I don’t think there’s something wrong with you.” Mycroft said calmly and Sherlock hated him. He hated him for lying.

Because there was something wrong with him. There had to be. Omegas had their first heats when they were 13 or 14 years old. Fifteen years old at the latest. Mycroft himself had his first heat when he was 13. Sherlock was 16 years old. It was unnatural.

“Yes, you do! You think there’s something wrong with me!” Sherlock was desperate for Mycroft to just admit it. He would feel better if Mycroft told him that yes, he suspected there was something fundamentally wrong with Sherlock. It would be better to have it out in the open instead of laying between them, unsaid, and festering like a sore.

“I do not think there is something wrong with you.” Mycroft repeated. He held Sherlock’s gaze, refusing to look away or blink.

“Then why haven’t I had a heat yet?” Sherlock demanded. He was embarrassed to feel the sting of tears and he knew he was close to losing control. His heats were a touchy subject and he hated feeling weak and helpless and wrong. He just wanted to be normal and not have this hanging over his head all the time.

Mycroft stood up and closed the distance between them. He pulled Sherlock up and out of his chair and into a hug. Sherlock clung to Mycroft, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his brother hold him. He heard Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind her as she left, and he allowed himself to relax. But unlike all the other times when Mycroft hugged him, this one didn’t give him comfort. This was one problem that Mycroft couldn’t fix for him.

No one could.

“What will happen if I never have a heat?” Sherlock asked, the words tearing their way out of his throat before he could stop them. “What will happen to…with John?”

Mycroft was silent. That, more than anything, caused the fear in Sherlock’s stomach to settle into something akin to cold, icy dread.

“Mycroft? Please. Just tell me. What will happen?”

“There’s no reason for you to worry about that, Locky, because you will-“

“Please. I have to know.”

Mycroft sighed. He scrubbed a hand through Sherlock’s curls. “The betrothal will be declared null and void. John will be sent back to Scotland. I suppose another marriage will be arranged by his father and I…will declare myself the rightful Omega Crown Prince, next in line for the throne.”

“But you can’t.” Sherlock struggled his way out of Mycroft’s arms, horrified.

“I will have to.” Mycroft said. “The country will need an heir who can produce children to secure the line. Mummy will arrange a marriage for me to some Alpha who will move here and we will wed. I am already of age. It will happen quickly.”

“But…” The cold feeling of panic was starting to claw its way up Sherlock’s throat. This was all because of him. He was failing to be a good Omega and have a heat and now he would lose John and Mycroft would be forced to wed someone he hated and- “What about Captain Lestrade?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft shook his head. “There would be no Captain Lestrade. I suppose I’d pension him off like Alphas do with their Omega mistresses.” Mycroft ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Sherlock, all of this is ridiculous. Why are you torturing yourself wanting to know all of these things? None of it will happen. You will have a heat, it will be perfectly natural, your and John’s betrothal will carry on, and in two more years you’ll get married. That will be the end of it.”

Sherlock’s chin wobbled. He wanted that to be true, desperately and with all his heart.

“I’m scared it won’t ever happen.” Sherlock had never said those words out loud before. He’d thought them, fretted over them, cried in the dead of night by himself because of them, but he’d never told anyone else how he felt. He’d expected to feel a weight lift off his shoulders, but instead he felt more desolate than ever.

Mycroft looked sad and pulled him into another hug.

“Locky. You are fine. There is nothing wrong with you. Your heat is just late, that’s all. You will have a heat in due time. All of this anxiety isn’t helping matters. You have too much stress placed on you and I think it’s throwing everything off.”

Sherlock grasped at this with anxious hope. “You think so?”

“Yes, I do.” Mycroft cleared his throat and stepped back. “Which is why Mummy…well, that brings me to the other thing I’ve come to talk to you about.”

Sherlock didn’t like the look on Mycroft’s face. “What?”

* * *

Sherlock was having breakfast when he heard John shouting. He sounded far away and Sherlock couldn’t make out what was being said (although he had a very good idea what the subject was). He scrambled out of his seat and pressed his ear against the door.

“-don’t see why the bloody hell he can’t.” John bellowed angrily and Sherlock couldn’t suppress an ecstatic grin. He did love when John got all shout-y and he was pleased that John wasn’t happy at the turn of events.

“Queen Holmes maintains that Prince Sherlock has been engaging in very un-Omega like behaviors which have been detrimental to his health-“

“The bloody fuck he has! I take care of him! I’m Prince Sherlock’s Alpha Patron and I damn well know what the fuck is the best for him. And he needs to be outside, exercising, not sitting around, dull and bored-“

“Prince John, please calm yourself.”

Stamford, Sherlock realized, finally placing the second voice. John was shouting at his man, Stamford. He supposed everyone else had been too much of a coward to deliver the news themselves.

“How can I calm myself when,” John lowered his voice and Sherlock strained to hear what was said, “when I’m told that because Sherlock’s been outside getting stronger with fresh air and exercise he’s been damaged and now he needs to stay inside, in the damp, and- and- and do fuck all like a good little Omega-“

“The Queen commands it.”

There was silence following that statement. Sherlock waited but there didn’t seem to be anything else John would say. He trailed back to his seat, plopping down again and listlessly poked at his eggs.

He knew what John would do now: he would maybe rant a bit more but then go down to the training yard without Sherlock and practice his swords and spears, get all sweaty and gorgeous, and then come up and commiserate with Sherlock later in the day. Sherlock glared at his toast. He knew it was selfish but if he couldn’t go down and train, he didn’t want John going either. He felt like a child left behind while the rest of his family went on holiday and had a marvelous time. He felt all the crushing, unfair weight of being left out.

He jumped when the door opened- then immediately blushed and looked away when John entered. John shut the door louder than usual and stumped to the table, flinging himself down in a chair opposite Sherlock, gruffly thanking the servants who placed tea and toast in front of him, then fell silent. He was breathing heavily. Sherlock could almost feel the anger rolling off him in waves.

Sherlock decided to pretend that he hadn’t heard the argument in the hallway.

There didn’t seem to be anything to say for a long time. Sherlock didn’t know how to broach the subject tactfully and John didn’t seem inclined to talk at all. He was busy tearing his toast to bits, his nostrils flared like a spooked horse. Sherlock watched the savage display with pride, and a little wariness.

But finally, the silence lasted so long it seemed ridiculous.

“I’m sorry that I cannot come to the training yard anymore.” Sherlock ventured. “I know it’s very irritating for you to lose a sparring partner, but Captain Lestrade-“

“That’s not why I’m angry, Sherlock.” John snapped. “I’m not angry because I lost a sparring partner. I’m angry because-“ He broke off, clenching his jaw and audibly grinding his teeth.

“Because?”

“Because it’s stupid. It’s the most godsdamn outrageous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” John stormed. “Omegas aren’t weak and useless and they aren’t meant to sit indoors all day on a velvet cushion being coddled. For Queen Holmes to accuse me- me!- of damaging you by encouraging you to train with swords, it’s… it’s…” John seemed to have run out of words to explain the incredible absurdity of this idea and blustered along for a while longer, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

“I thought perhaps you were angry with me.”

John stopped his tirade and scowled. “You? Why would I be mad at you?”

“Well, this is my fault. If I…” Sherlock paused, then blundered on, a blush staining his cheeks. “If I’d had a heat like a normal Omega this would never have…” Sherlock couldn’t continue. This was the closest he and John had ever come to talking about his heats and the squirming feeling in his stomach would not let him speak.

A faint pink crept up John’s neck but he cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a serious look. “None of this is your fault, Sherlock. It’s just…rotten luck. Your…your, uhm…your lack of heats isn’t because of training with swords.”

“It isn’t?” Sherlock thought he might swoon at John referring to him and heats in the same sentence. His palms were sweaty and slipped against his teacup. He hastily put it back on the saucer.

“No.” John looked like he wanted to say more- even opened his mouth- but then subsided. He sank deeper in his seat and took bracing sips of his tea. “So, you’re not allowed to train with swords.”

“No. And Mummy says I’m not to exert myself. No lessons. No studying. I’m also barred from riding on horseback.”

John scowled. “Why would you be barred from riding on horseback?”

Sherlock’s face flamed with color. “It…the physicians said…” But he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell John the reason he wasn’t allowed to have something _between his legs_. Sherlock thought John caught his meaning anyway because he choked on his tea and spent a few minutes coughing and hacking, his face turning an alarming shade of red as he wheezed.

“But I want you to know that just because I have these restrictions does not mean I expect you to suffer as well. If you want to continue to train, or ride out, then I won’t begrudge you.” Sherlock meant it. Of course, he _would_ begrudge John…but he would _try_ not to.

“No, no.” John managed, finally getting his breath back even though his face stayed red. “If you can’t do those things then…I won’t either.”

“Really?” Sherlock beamed, happiness brightening his face, and John blinked at him, looked poleaxed, in a rather stupid manner but Sherlock found it very endearing. “You mean you’ll wait on me?”

“Of course, Sherlock. For as long as it takes.”


	3. Chapter 3

“The palace physician is being sent to examine the Crown Prince this afternoon.”

John frowned at Mike Stamford’s pronouncement, laying his mother’s recent letter down on his desk. “Examine him? Why? Is he sick?”

“No, no. The Crown Prince is fine, or well…” Stamford gave John a bland smile. “As good as can be expected considering…”

“Considering?” John rose out of his chair and was halfway across the room in a breath. If something had happened to Sherlock-

“He’s fine, he’s fine. I suppose I’m getting a little dramatic. I’ve spent all morning listening to Her Majesty and those manners.” Stamford rolled his eyes. “It can be affecting.”

“Stamford.” John gritted out. “What. Is. Wrong. With. Sherlock? Why is the palace physician being sent to examine him?”

“You know why, John. Crown Prince Sherlock is now sixteen years old and has yet to have a heat. Queen Holmes has decided it may be beneficial if the physician sees him and can maybe set things to rights.”

“Oh.” John looked back at his desk but he didn’t see the papers scattered across it anymore. There was a dull rushing sound in his ears that presaged the first wave of anger he always felt when someone brought up Sherlock’s lack of heats.

Like it was any of their damn business, John fumed. That sort of thing was private and shouldn’t be discussed from the scullery to the ramparts, bandied between servants and courtiers and whispered about whenever Sherlock entered a room. Everyone said there was something wrong with him, that Sherlock was defective.

John wanted to kill the person who had started that rumor, and then pummel everyone who had carried it.

There was nothing wrong with Sherlock. In John’s estimation, Sherlock was perfect. He was just a late-bloomer. These things happened with Omegas sometimes. There was nothing wrong with Sherlock.

John hated how useless he felt about the whole thing. He could tell the rumors were starting to wear on Sherlock. The Omega had been more quiet and withdrawn lately, snapping over everything. John had done the best he could, but he knew Sherlock was upset and he didn’t know how to make things better. It made him feel inept. The worst sort of pathetic Alpha.

He couldn’t make Sherlock’s heats start.

He would if he could, though. He would do anything if it meant seeing Sherlock smile again.

“Queen Holmes has requested that you attend the examination.”

John turned to Stamford, nonplussed. “What.”

“You are Sherlock’s Alpha Patron. It’s your place to witness the examination and the physician may have questions which only you will be able to answer. And,” Stamford continued when John made to interrupt, “whatever he prescribes as Sherlock’s regimen will have to be approved by you.”

“I don’t want to go.” John’s skin crawled at the idea of it: sitting in a room with Sherlock while he disrobed and was then poked and prodded by the physician and asked all manner of personal, intimate questions. Maybe there would be a screen? Surely John wouldn’t be expected to watch the exam, he thought feverishly. Probably he could sit in Sherlock’s sitting room and wait until the physician was done and then they could discuss his findings.

Except. John didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone, in a room, with a strange Alpha while he was unclothed. The very idea sent another wave of anger through him and John forced himself to calm down before he did something stupid.

“It’s not negotiable. You are requested by Queen Holmes to attend. Besides,” Stamford added, lowering his voice to a hush, “I think Sherlock may like to have you there. It may be a somewhat trying experience and to have you there to steady him may be just the thing.”

“But…he’s an Omega and won’t that…our betrothal contract is very particular that we can’t…we shouldn’t be…uhm…” John gestured hopelessly, willing Stamford to understand what he was trying to say. “An Alpha wouldn’t be allowed to attend a physical exam of an Omega…even back home.”

“Oh.” Stamford’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. This is Northumbria. Of course, Sherlock will remain fully clothed the entire time. No one is allowed to see him in a state of dishabille except yourself. Even when Omegas give birth, they are covered from neck to ankle and the physician is only allowed to lift up the sheet and feel-“

“Alright, alright!” John held up his hands to ward off that information. He did not need to hear it. Thinking of Sherlock having a heat made his skin crawl. Imagining Sherlock pregnant- made pregnant by John- made him feel like he was having a heart attack.

He sighed. It seemed that he had no choice.

“What time is the exam?”

“Just after noon. Shall I bring your lunch and let you eat here while you finish your letters?”

John shook his head. He didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything until after this was over.

* * *

Sherlock’s bedroom was bright and warm, redolent with the smells of summertime flowers in full bloom.

Sherlock sat prim and proper, his ankles crossed and hands clasped demurely in his lap to hide the fact they were shaking, as the Head Physician, Stijn, entered the room and bowed. He straightened and then bowed again, directing himself this time to where John was already seated, behind Sherlock and to the left, in the corner of Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock had to force himself not to glance backwards at John, but even so, the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck prickled with awareness of John and his proximity to himself. They were in his bedroom. Never mind that Mrs. Hudson had chaperoned them until Stijn arrived. They were in Sherlock’s bedroom. Together.

Not that John wanted to be there. It had been obvious from the moment he walked in the door that John thought this was a waste of his time and would rather be anywhere else. Sherlock had glanced at him earlier and seen him slouched in his chair, arms crossed, and radiating displeasure.

Stijn made a long and blustery speech about his gratitude and his sense of obligation and duty and the many years he had spent studying Omega physiology, directing most of it to John. He then motioned for his assistant to bring him a chair. He pulled it close to Sherlock and banished the assistant from the room. Stijn was an elderly man, stooped and spindly, with wisps of grey hair brushed oddly over his bare pate. His black robe, standard garb for a palace physician, hung loose about his frame and there was a tremor in his hands that never fully settled. Despite how uncomfortable he felt in the situation, Sherlock looked into Stijn’s eyes and felt peaceful. Stijn radiated Alpha warmth and protection.

Sherlock immediately distrusted him.

“I hope you do not mind that I sent my assistant away, Your Highness. I thought it best to keep these proceedings discreet.”

“Thank you.” John didn’t sound thankful. He sounded like he wanted to take Stijn’s head off. Sherlock wondered what John had against the physician. To his knowledge, John had never even said two words to Stijn.

But Stijn didn’t seem to think anything was wrong. He beamed, probably used to dealing with irritable royals, and turned his attention to Sherlock. Sherlock resisted the urge to squirm.

Because Sherlock was an Omega, he could not remove his clothes in front of an Alpha and Stijn had to rely on asking questions and base his diagnosis solely on Sherlock’s answers. When Mycroft had told him, Sherlock didn’t think that sounded so bad. He was in very good health. He didn’t see how many questions Stijn would have to ask him.

“Please, be as honest as possible, Your Highness.” Stijn said. “It is of the utmost importance that you answer my questions to the best of your ability. Otherwise, we may not reach the correct diagnosis.”

Sherlock inclined his head. Mycroft and Mummy had told him as much.

“I do understand the delicacy of your position, Your Highness. Please, forgive me for asking such questions. It’s not meant as impertinent or a vulgarity but a matter of course.”

Sherlock didn’t like the sound of that. “Of course.” He murmured, suddenly apprehensive about what was forthcoming.

“Shall I proceed?” Stijn looked to John and must have been given an affirmative because he asked-

“Prince Sherlock. Do you know the differences between Alphas and Omegas?”

That didn’t seem so bad. “Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Very good. It is my understanding that you have been told that Alphas are the more powerful, dominant gender. That they are there to protect the weaker, softer Omega.”

That wasn’t a question and so Sherlock felt he didn’t have to say anything.

“And what is the different between Alphas and Omegas, physically, as regards their genitalia?” Stijn asked.

A blush burned its way onto Sherlock’s cheeks. “Alphas are…they have…” He made to gesture with his hand and immediately placed it back in his lap before John or Stijn thought he was making a rude sign. “They have…knots...”

“Yes, yes. Very good. And Omegas?”

“They…don’t.” Sherlock said feebly and he saw Stijn’s lips twitch, trying and failing to hide a smile. The physician glanced behind Sherlock to where John was sitting, including him in on the joke which was at Sherlock’s expense…but whatever he saw on John’s face wiped the smile off his own. Stijn cleared his throat, suddenly businesslike again.

“That is true. Omegas do not have knots. Omegas have heats, yes? Only you haven’t had one yet. That is what we are here to determine today. Now.” Stijn rubbed his hands together. “To business. What happens during a heat?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. He wished John wasn’t here to witness this. It was the worst sort of shameful torture. “Omegas become…aroused.”

“Yes. And?”

“They…Alphas…knot them.”

Stijn nodded. “Yes, yes. Very good. And this arousal, what do you know about it?”

Sherlock swallowed around a lump in his throat that was threatening to choke him. He really, really wished John was not in the room. He didn’t know how he could get rid of him without seeming rude, though. “I was told that it’s painful and won’t go away, but that…an Alpha…makes it better with their…knot.” There was so much more he wanted to say. He wanted to answer with witty remarks, answer with facts and scientific words, and prove to John how sophisticated and knowledgeable he was. But the pressure in the room was stifling. Both Alphas were looking at him and Sherlock was too embarrassed and scattered to think clearly.

It was all the worse because he wasn’t just embarrassing himself- he was embarrassing himself in front of John, his future Alpha and future husband. The person Sherlock would one day be doing these things with. To seem gauche and ignorant was mortifying.

“And you do not think you have ever experienced this type of arousal?”

Sherlock looked at Stijn like he was crazy. “I think I would have noticed.”

John made a noise behind him. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“Yes, I daresay you would have noticed. Well. Have you ever experienced any type of arousal of a sexual nature?”

Sherlock froze. The question reverberated in his ears, too horrible to contemplate. He kept his face blank but he could feel his ears turning red.

“I don’t understand how that is relevant.” He said stiffly and Stijn harrumphed.

“It’s an indelicate question, I understand, Your Highness, but it is of the utmost importance. If you perhaps have never experienced arousal, it suggests there may be a more pressing physical problem than just your lack of heats.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he were anywhere but here. “Y-yes.” He murmured. “I have.”

“Excellent. That’s very good to hear, however...” Stijn paused. “Due to the nature of your upbringing, are you certain that you would know what sexual arousal was, if you felt it?”

This time shame turned to anger. It was a better emotion and Sherlock clung to it. He hated being condescended to. “_Yes_.” He snapped. Of course he fucking knew. He wasn’t a complete moron.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. Sometimes Omegas become confused as to what their body is telling them. It’s why they need an Alpha to guide them through things like arousal and heats and the like.”

Sherlock didn’t think he needed an Alpha to tell him when he was aroused. He suddenly thought about going to John when he had an erection and asking his opinion as to whether or not he was aroused.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. He quickly thought of something else.

“When you experience arousal, do you also experience tumescence?”

“Yes…”

“Frequently?”

“Occasionally.” Sherlock didn’t want John to think he was a raging pervert with an erection 24/7.

“I see. Very good. And when you experience tumescence, are other symptoms of arousal present? Is there accompanying wetness?”

Please make him stop, Sherlock tried to broadcast his distress to John. He wanted the questions over-

“I believe he has already answered your question, Doctor. He experiences normal arousal.” John smoothly cut in, and his tone was light but carried full authority. Stijn bowed.

“Yes, Your Highness. He did. And that’s good to hear. Excellent news. However…” He paused, glancing at John and then back to Sherlock. “Forgive me, Your Highnesses…Prince Sherlock, when you experience arousal and the accompanying symptoms…what has been your…normal recourse?”

Sherlock blinked, not understanding. “My normal recourse?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t understand the question.”

“When you experience arousal, how do you remedy the situation?”

Sherlock wanted to die. He literally, as the gods were his witness, wanted to die.

“I…” He licked his lips. Stijn leaned forward to hear him better and Sherlock wanted to cringe away. Stijn was being very professional but he didn’t want the Alpha any closer to him than he already was. “I…t-touch…” That was all Sherlock could get out through his choking embarrassment. He heard John shift in his chair and at the reminder that John had heard Sherlock admit that yes, he jerked himself off, Sherlock covered his face with his hands. He was so embarrassed he wanted to never see John ever again.

“There, there, Your Highness.” Stijn soothed, misinterpreting the reason for his humiliation. He patted at Sherlock’s knee. “You’re being a very good boy answering my questions. Indeed? You touch yourself? And do you touch your front or back?”

Sherlock shook his head, not lowering his hands. He couldn’t answer that.

“I think that’s enough questions.” John snapped, sounding livid. Sherlock heard his chair scrape as he stood up. “Your examination is done.”

“Yes, Your Highness. It’s only…” Stijn dithered, obviously worried about the Alpha in front of him. “But…Queen Holmes has insisted I ask these questions and I cannot go back to her without finishing.” It was clear his fear of Queen Holmes trumped that of his fear of John. “Prince Sherlock. Please, forgive my impertinence, but I must ask you these questions. It is not to embarrass you. I know very well the natural modesty and shyness of Omegas and it is plain that you are the humblest Omega that has ever graced Northumbria. If you were able to answer my questions with a brazen face I would think there was something lacking with you, but I will graciously report to your Queen Mother that you were discomfitured the entire time. She should be proud to have raised such a model Omega.”

Sherlock lowered his hands. He gave Stijn a baleful look.

“Only a few more questions remain.”

Sherlock knew that if he denied Stijn his questions, Mummy would punish him. She’d already taken away his sword training with John and horseback riding and most other activities he loved because he hadn’t had a heat. If he sabotaged his examination, he shuddered to think what she would take away next. Maybe John himself. “Very well. Continue.”

“_Sherlock_-“ John started, but Sherlock waved him away.

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but Sherlock had to do this.

“Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you.” Stijn dabbed at his forehead. “When you touch yourself, do you experience a paroxysm?”

Sherlock nodded. He wanted this finished.

At his answer, Stijn grimaced. “Oh, that’s very bad, Your Highness. That’s a very, very bad thing for an Omega to do and it’s doubtless why you have not yet experienced a heat.”

Sherlock forgot all about being embarrassed. His stomach dropped. “It is?”

“Oh, yes. Omegas should never touch themselves in such a manner and bring about a paroxysm. That is exclusively for their Alpha to do, or for an Omega to experience during a heat. You see, if you do such a thing, it trains your body that you no longer need a heat, or an Alpha, and so it doesn’t have one. Yes, I’m sure that is the reason.” Stijn continued, nodding sagely and looking very pleased with himself. “Self-abuse in Omegas causes all sorts of maladies. There’s been lots of research on the subject. No heats. Infertility. Impotence. Excessive hair growth. Spots. Hives. Nervous complaints. Sexual immorality.”

Sherlock’s head spun. So it was…his fault? It was actually his fault? What he’d feared all along was true?

“There is nothing physically wrong with you, Prince Sherlock, if you react in the ways you say.” Stijn continued. “However, effective immediately, you must restrain yourself from inappropriate touching. If arousal does occur, you should do your best to ignore it, and concentrate on being the best Omega you can for your Alpha. I think we can all agree that Prince John deserves no less. Yes?” Stijn smiled at John but whatever look he found on John’s face made his smile falter, before disappearing from his face entirely. He looked suddenly afraid. “I- I think a nice mantra wouldn’t be amiss. Something to- to keep you from touching and remind you what a terrible, horrible thing it is for an Omega to do. I truly think that recourse will be effective.” He assured Sherlock, but his tone was not as jovial as before and his eyes kept darting back to John again and again. He stood up and started edging for the door. “Ginseng tea is a good remedy and I suggest you keep drinking it. There’s also waka root, if you can procure it, which is effective. If that fails...there is still…but we won’t worry about that now. I think we’re found the problem.” He tapped the side of his nose, reaching for the doorknob with his other hand. “I will inform Queen Holmes that we have found the problem-“

Sherlock’s heart lurched. It was dreadful that John had been witness to his mortifying confession, but the idea of Mummy knowing as well was horrific. What she would say-!

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” John cut in smoothly and Sherlock swung his head around in surprise. John was white to the lips, absolutely livid. Sherlock dropped his gaze quickly. “Queen Holmes should be told that you conducted your examination and decided on a remedy, but I exercise my right as Sherlock’s Alpha Patron to keep everything Sherlock has told you confidential.”

“But- but…Queen Holmes-“

“Will understand. She has always allowed me complete authority with my Patronage. She trusts my judgment. Sherlock is under my care. You will tell her nothing. I will deal with this.”

Stijn dithered for a moment, then gave a hesitant nod. “Yes, Your Highness. But if she presses me-“

“Tell her to come to me. I will tell her what needs to be said. You will tell her nothing.”

Stijn seemed to know to cut his losses. He bowed his way out of the room and closed the door behind him. John and Sherlock were left in silence.

Sherlock wanted to apologize to John for being such a miserable failure of an Omega, but he couldn’t say a word. His insides were all jittery and tangled and twisted. All of this was his fault.

Perhaps he would have already had a heat if he hadn’t abused himself. All of this worry and anxiety over his condition was his fault. He had caused all of this uncertainty.

What would Mycroft say?

The silence dragged on. Nothing relieved it.

Sherlock wished Mrs. Hudson would come back. She was always so nosy but the one time he wanted her to be nosy, she refused.

A few shouts echoed up from outside, down below, soldiers calling to one another as they made their way to the barracks. Voices drifted from other balconies, indistinct chatter. It was a fine, sunny day outside. Everyone was enjoying it. Somewhere far away, Sherlock could hear the distant strains of a lute.

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Don’t.” John barked and Sherlock flinched, feeling the rebuke like a slap. What if John wouldn’t forgive him? What if Sherlock had done irreparable damage and he and John would never be able to get married? Did John mind if Sherlock was a bad Omega?

Suddenly, John was in front of him, kneeling down and taking Sherlock’s hands in his, squeezing them tightly. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Fuck. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“S’fine.”

“No. It’s not fine. I’m not mad at you. Alright? _This isn’t your fault._”

Sherlock’s heart swooped when John let go of one of his hands in order to tilt Sherlock’s face up. John’s fingers were gentle beneath his chin but implacable, forcing Sherlock to meet his eyes.

“None of this is your fault.”

“But…Stijn said…” Sherlock couldn’t continue. Now that it was just himself and John, alone, he could not refer to touching himself. He dropped his eyes but John’s fingers stayed caressing his face.

“Stijn is an idiot. A posturing Alpha who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and isn’t. Everything he told you was bollocks. Alright? All of his fucking advice was bollocks. Your heats haven’t been prevented because you…because you’ve been having a wank.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, despite the gravity of the situation, and he looked at John in question. “Having a what?”

“A wank. It’s when you…” John made a very rude, very graphic gesture and Sherlock took a tremulous gasp of giddy shock.

“_John_!”

“You asked!”

“Well, I’ve never heard it called that before.”

“Maybe it’s a Scottish slang. Doesn’t change the fact that having a wank isn’t going to throw your heats off.”

“But how can you be sure?” Sherlock asked, agonized. It had been the worst sort of news to be told that everything was his fault. He’d suspected, but to be told in such a stark way…

“Because I know.” John evaded. “Who are you going to believe? Him, some stuffy old Alpha without any common sense and a questionable grasp of medical science…or me?”

When put that way…

Sherlock bit his lip. He still had questions, some doubts. “But what if-“

“No.”

“But-“

“No.”

“Maybe-“

“_No_.”

Sherlock huffed.

“Look,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hands again and not letting go, “you told me you hated not being told things and being ignorant and wanted me to tell you when you asked about stuff. Right? You remember?”

“Of course, John.”

“Then listen. I’m telling you. Everything Stijn just told you was wrong. You don’t have to think this is your fault. You don’t have to feel guilty. You can…” John visibly swallowed and seemed to be done talking. But one look at Sherlock’s face and John straightened his spine, staring Sherlock straight in the eyes. “You can enjoy being aroused and have a wank whenever you fucking want. Alright? Because doing that isn’t wrong, in any way. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Yeah?”

Sherlock stared at John for a long minute, gauging his level of seriousness, and then nodded. Once.

“And just to let you know…I…do that…every once in a while.” John said. Sherlock goggled at him.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“You…h-have a…” Sherlock couldn’t say the words, and he couldn’t use the gesture John had done earlier.

“Yes. And now that you know, do you think I’m less of an Alpha?”

“No! Of course not!” Sherlock protested. The exact opposite was true. Sherlock had already wondered many, many, many times about this very thing. Imagining John touching himself, laying on his back in bed and stroking himself, caused shivers to race down Sherlock’s spine. He knew John had felt him react when John cleared his throat, going red, and drew his hands away from Sherlock. He stood up and Sherlock missed his warmth, wanting him back on his knees in front of him again.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” Sherlock was helpless to know the real answer. “Since you said the reason I haven’t had my heats is not because I…do you think something else is wrong with me instead?”

“No. Gods, no. Sherlock.” John stroked Sherlock’s hair off his forehead and pressed a fleeting kiss to his skin. “There is nothing wrong with you. Don’t let them make you think that there is. You’re the best damn Omega I’ve ever met.” He smiled and Sherlock’s chest swelled.

“I want to have a heat.”

“I know. And you will. It’s all this pressure, everyone waiting on you to have one…but you will. I know you will.”

John’s confidence was bolstering and Sherlock smiled, the first real smile he’d felt in over a week.

“John…?”

“Mm?”

“May I have…will you please…?” Sherlock brought trembling fingers up to trace his own lips, hesitant in asking for this favor.

Since John had kissed him over a year ago, they’d rarely repeated the action. Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times John had kissed him- and yes, he kept count. He didn’t think he would ever stop numbering the instances of John kissing him. Each time was unique and special and Sherlock didn’t think that would ever change.

Sometimes he asked, and John said no. The time wasn’t right, or John said that they couldn’t for one reason or another. Sometimes, Sherlock wanted to ask but didn’t.

John had never asked to kiss Sherlock. Not once.

Sherlock held out hope that one day John would ask him.

In the meantime, he didn’t mind asking.

John glanced at the closed door, then back to Sherlock’s face. He bit his own lip, clearly warring with himself.

“I don’t think right now is the appropriate time.” He finally said. “Your brother is coming to check on you soon, and after Stijn…”

Sherlock sagged, unable to mask his disappointment. After going through the ordeal of the palace physician, being embarrassed and humiliated, he felt that he deserved a treat. Being kissed by John was the best treat he could imagine.

John sighed, sounding defeated. “Close your eyes.”

Perking up, Sherlock quickly, obediently closed his eyes. He was rewarded a moment later with the too-quick brush of John’s lips against his own, the trace of John’s fingers on his cheek. Sherlock’s stomach swooped, this time with happiness and glee.

Then, it was over.

Sherlock sighed. He knew he was smiling before he even opened his eyes. He met John’s eyes in the split second before the Alpha turned away, and he wondered about the flash he’d seen in them, the emotion John was masking as he left his bedroom.

But Sherlock decided to worry about that later. He spread himself out on his bed, fully clothed, arms akimbo, and allowed himself to grin and bask in the joy of having kissed John for the fifth time in his life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I know this was supposed to be the last chapter, but I thought it worked better split in 2. I will post the final- final chapter next week.

Mycroft listened to his mother hand down her decree with a sense of growing horror, which grew as she continued to speak until he thought he would be sick with it.

“Sherlock is still just a child-“

Queen Holmes made an impatient gesture, giving Mycroft a scornful look. “Sherlock is 16 years old. He is hardly a child, Mycroft. Younger Omegas than he, here in this city, even among the nobility, are already married, bonded, and spawning brats.”

Mycroft knew that. He’d seen them: Omegas with red bonding scars on their necks, hollow-eyed as they followed after their Alpha, bearing them children whenever the Alpha wished it. They never seemed happy. They never seemed…whole.

Mycroft didn’t want that for Sherlock.

He had to convince Queen Holmes that this was a mistake.

“But Sherlock and John will not be married until Sherlock is 18. There is still plenty of time-“

“No. There is no time. Do not be stupid, Mycroft. It does not become you.” Queen Holmes sneered and Mycroft suddenly wondered when they had started hating each other. It was true. His hatred for his mother beat along with the rhythm of his heart and he could see the same emotion reflected in her eyes. “There is already talk about Sherlock being ineligible for the throne. I refuse to give Lord Moriarty more ammunition than he already has. We know our contingency plans if Sherlock is unfit, and the sooner we can put those in place, the better.”

She stood from her seat and paced to the window, giving Mycroft her back, as if he weren’t even worthy of being looked at. He felt the dismissal like a slap, just as she’d intended, and he glared at her, wondering how he had ever loved her.

But he couldn’t back down.

“Mummy-“

“Bring John to me.”

He couldn’t let this happen to Sherlock. He had not raised and protected him just to recklessly throw it all away. Mycroft locked his knees. “Mummy, I-“

“Enough. I do not want to hear another word. Do as I say. Now. Mycroft.”

* * *

The only warning Mycroft received was a flurry of shouts from outside his office door and then the rough pounding of wood as John Watson punched the door open and stalked inside. The guards usually stationed outside of Mycroft’s office reached for him, attempting to draw him back if he tried actual violence against Mycroft, but none actually touched him. John was still a Prince, and betrothed to the Crown Prince. He was the future King. A favorite of Queen Holmes’s. No one wanted to risk his displeasure.

John met Mycroft’s eyes from across the room. His face was white with fury, hands knotted at his sides. “No.” He declared. “Absolutely godsdamn not.”

Mycroft was too tired to deal with this. He sank back in his seat, balancing his tumbler of scotch against the arm of his chair, and made a dismissive gesture. The guards retreated and closed the door behind them.

“Won’t you have a seat?”

“You said,” John growled, ignoring Mycroft’s polite inanity and stalking closer. “You said I wasn’t supposed to do anything like that until we were married and now all of a sudden it’s fine and it’s not. It’s not fine.”

No, it wasn’t fine.

Mycroft was pleased that John was as stridently opposed to the plan as he was, though. That was some small, useless comfort.

“You must at least entertain the idea-“

“No I fucking don’t.” John said. “Sherlock is too young for this.”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Then why…why are you…?” John seemed to be so furious he couldn’t form words. “Why are you…can’t you…”

Mycroft took a steep drink of scotch before answering. “Believe it or not, John, but I am not all powerful. I cannot reverse my mother’s decisions.”

“But I can.” A new light had entered John’s eyes. “I’m Sherlock’s patron. I’ll just say that Sherlock is too young and that if he still hasn’t had a heat in another year, then I’ll entertain the idea. _Maybe_.”

Mycroft finished the rest of his scotch and reached for the decanter. He tipped it toward John, got no answer, shrugged, and poured himself another glass. He studied the amber liquid, hating the situation and hating himself and wishing he didn’t have to do this.

“Are you sure that is the best decision?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft took a long drink. “Do you really want to go against the Queen on this issue? So publicly?”

“I’m not afraid of her.”

You should be.

Mycroft swallowed those words with his scotch. “Think, John. How will it look? You are asked to scent your future Consort, your future spouse, your future Omega, the Omega you will one day (gods willing) be bonded with…and you not only refuse, but evoke your patronage to prevent it. It places you in a delicate situation. It looks as if you detest your Omega...that you detest Sherlock.”

Mycroft wondered if John were going to hit him. He was glad he’d been drinking so much since that afternoon because he didn’t really care either way.

“How fucking dare you?” John looked murderous, his jaw clenched so tightly Mycroft wondered if he would break a tooth. “You know that’s not-“

“Gods, you are _exhausting_.” Mycroft massaged at his temple. He didn’t know if he’d drank too much or if the stress of the entire situation was starting to get to him, but he felt a headache starting to pound behind his eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Fucking pardon me. I thought you gave a fuck about Sherlock-“

Mycroft slammed his glass down on his desk so hard it cracked. “I care about Sherlock more than anything else in this world! _I care about him more than you can ever imagine._” He snarled, then blinked, and tried to pull himself back. He did not intend to show such emotion in front of anyone, much less John Watson, and that he’d slipped and done so…

But John seemed oddly impressed by his display. If anything, it had calmed him down because he eyed Mycroft with a newfound respect as he took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Mycroft’s desk. He was still angry- Mycroft could smell the scent of infuriated Alpha and wondered how he would ever get the stink out of his office- but there was a seriousness to his expression when he spoke.

“Explain what you meant.”

“I know my brother. No matter what face he may present to you, he is already embarrassed because he hasn’t had a heat, and everyone is putting so much pressure on him. They say he is a failure, that there is something wrong with him, that he’s not a good enough Omega. He’s getting desperate. And then if you to reject him so publicly…” Mycroft spread his hands, leaving the rest unsaid but he knew John could fill in the blank spaces. He finished off his scotch, picking at the crack in the glass with his thumb, while John focused inward, mulling things over.

Mycroft observed him over the rim of his glass. John Watson was a good Alpha. Noble, courageous, etc. He was too tipsy to think of the rest of the adjectives necessary. He had chosen John as the best Alpha to take care of his brother, and over the years John had never given Mycroft reason to doubt him.

Well.

That wasn’t true. John had _frequently_ given Mycroft reason to doubt him. However, John had always proven, over and over, that Mycroft’s expectations of him were unfounded and low. He had passed every test with flying colors.

Only this wasn’t a test. This was real. There was nothing either one of them could do to prevent what was going to happen. John would do his best. Mycroft didn’t think for a second that John would press his advantage or do something untoward with Sherlock. He just hated to think of Sherlock being forced into such a position, and the uneasiness he might feel doing something so intimate before he was ready.

“You know what that kind of a scenting is like.” John said heavily.

“Yes.”

“What am I gonna do?”

Mycroft didn’t think John was actually asking him for advice. He wouldn’t have known what to say if he had been.

Mycroft offered the decanter to John again and this time John took it. He filled up a glass, downed it, then filled it up again.

“You know what that kind of a scenting is like.” He said again but Mycroft didn’t answer him. What more was there for him to add? They drank in silence.

John pressed his glass to his forehead and closed his eyes as if he were in pain. “I’m gonna scar him for life.”

“I hope that is not your actual plan.” Mycroft slurred and John shot him an irritated look. “You should be worried. I am glad you are. But you have a few days to figure it out.”

“Are you gonna tell him?”

“You’re his Patron.” Mycroft felt like being snide. He knew this wasn’t John’s fault, but it was easier to blame him than himself.

John looked sick at the prospect.

“A word of advice…” Mycroft reached for the decanter again. “I would not try pulling something over on Mummy again, like you did with Stijn. She does not like being ignorant of things. She will want to know everything about this scenting.”

John grimaced.

“I wanted to ask. What happened with Stijn’s exam?”

John shot Mycroft an indecipherable look and poured himself a huge serving of scotch. “Please. I’m trying to forget.”

“Trying to forget? Why? What happened?”

John’s only response was to keep drinking. If he hadn’t been so tipsy, Mycroft would have known to leave well enough alone, but he couldn’t help pressing.

“What did Stijn conclude?”

“_I_ concluded that you fucking need to get a new head physician.” John stated and that was all Mycroft could get him to say on the subject.

They were both thoroughly drunk by the time the office door opened and Captain Lestrade entered. John rolled his eyes on the seat to look at him, not seeming surprised to see the older man.

“You two smell like a distillery.”

“Ah, Captain Lestrade.” Mycroft slurred, sitting up straighter. “Is it late?”

“It’s past midnight. I thought it my duty to find and escort you to your bedroom, if the assistance was necessary.” He added, with a pointed look at the empty decanter.

“You take your _bodyguard_ duties very, very seriously.” John snorted, and started giggling, as if he had told the funniest joke. Captain Lestrade looked between him and Mycroft, but Mycroft was just as nonplussed.

“I can escort you as well, Prince John,” Captain Lestrade bowed. “If you need the assistance.”

“No, no.” John flapped a hand. “Wouldn’t want Mycroft getting jealous. I’m already having to scent his little brother. Did you know? He’d definitely unman me if I took away his…_bodyguard_.” John cracked up again, leaning back against his chair and dissolving with mirth.

“Yes…” Captain Lestrade said slowly. “I had heard about Queen Holmes’s plan.”

“Where’d you hear it from?”

“It’s all anyone can talk about right now. She made an announcement to her maids and from there it was only a matter of time before all of Northumbria knew.”

“I’m gonna scar him for life.” John’s laughter was gone now at the reminder of his troubles and he gave Captain Lestrade a haunted look. “For life.”

Captain Lestrade arched an eyebrow. “I think you’d be surprised.” He murmured. “You’ll do your best. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”

John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “He’s gonna end up hating me.”

“That’s very doubtful.”

“What if I mess it up? What if I scent him and he hates it? What if…what if he hates my scent or- or he doesn’t want me to touch him or…” John swayed in his chair. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Alright. That’s my cue.” Captain Lestrade none-too-gently hauled John to his feet. “Not surprised you’re gonna be sick. You drank enough to put any of my soldiers to shame.” He turned to Mycroft just before they reached the door. “Prince Mycroft, you will wait here until I come back for you.”

Mycroft waved a hand. “I serve at your pleasure, Captain.”

It was pure luck that Captain Lestrade managed to get John all the way to his bedroom and hang his head over a chamber pot before he was violently sick, casting up his accounts and all of the scotch he’d drank. Captain Lestrade left him to Stamford’s tender mercies and went back downstairs to begin the task of hauling his own inebriated love upstairs.

* * *

Mycroft had breakfast in Sherlock’s room the next morning. He winced away from the bright sunshine and could only stomach tea and dry toast. Sherlock knew the symptoms of a hangover and spent the first few minutes of breakfast being as loud as he possibly could.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft rasped. “Please.”

“What?” Sherlock paused with his fork held menacingly over his plate where he’d been scraping the tines against the china in the guise of cutting up his sausage.

“Put that down. Please.”

Since Mycroft had said please- _twice_\- Sherlock graciously put the fork down and picked up his tea, giving a loud slurp as he did.

Mycroft winced, but didn’t say anything.

“Sherlock. There is something I came here to discuss with you.” Mycroft placed his own teacup down in the saucer. “Sherlock...”

“Yes?”

“Sherlock…”

“Mycroft, if you say my name one more time…” Sherlock took up his fork again and hovered it over his plate. “Say whatever it is you want to say.”

“After your examination the other day, Stijn gave a recommendation to Mummy for. Well. It’s an old folk remedy, actually. When an Omega has a reticent heat, to allow their intended Alpha to scent them. It’s very common for Omegas to respond to such a thing and it may trigger your heat.”

Sherlock put his cup of tea back in the saucer. “And Mummy’s decided this for me?”

“Yes.”

“And…has John agreed to it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock turned and looked away, out the window where a wedge of blue sky was visible, rich and deep and clear.

John was going to scent him.

The idea seemed almost impossible. No matter how many times Sherlock said it to himself it didn’t stop sounding any less unreal.

John was going to scent him.

Sherlock had spent years imagining what it would be like to be scented by John. Yes, it was true that John scented at his wrist whenever they parted, but that didn’t really count. A wrist was such a- a- a _pallid_ area on which to be scented.

He’d assumed that they would scent when they were married. He’d seen illustrations of intimate scentings between an Alpha and their Omega in _those_ _books_ which he’d gotten from the library. Of course, he knew this scenting would be different from that. But how different? What would happen?

His stomach swooped when he imagined John being close to him, as close as he was the 5 times they had kissed. Their faces would press together. Perhaps John would touch his cheek? Would he touch him anywhere else?

Sherlock realized he was blushing and belatedly realized that his brother was still in the room with him.

“I. Ah. I suppose that will be fine.” He managed. His hands were shaking from excitement and nerves and he sat on them to keep Mycroft from noticing. “Especially if it will really trigger my heat…”

“It may, but Sherlock,” Mycroft frowned, “this is not a scenting like when you and I...or with Mummy or Father. A scenting with your Alpha will be…”

Sherlock’s blush deepened and he looked away again. “I can assume it will be very different.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Mycroft suddenly said, leaning forward over the table and giving Sherlock a piercing look. “You don’t. If you feel uncomfortable or scared, or if you’d just rather not do this, I will convince Mummy to stop. John will step in. We won’t let this happen if you’d rather not. I promise, Sherlock. No one will be mad at you and you’ll get your heat another way. It will be fine. I can go and speak to Mummy right now-“ He made as if to get up from the table but Sherlock stopped him, grabbing at Mycroft’s arm and tugging him back into his seat.

“No. No, Mycroft. I-“ He swallowed around the lump in his throat and he couldn’t tell if it was there from Mycroft’s concern or from the anticipation of what he and John would soon be doing. “I want to do this.”

“Sherlock. You don’t have to-“

“I want to. I appreciate your concern, My. I do. But. I want to do this. I trust John."

Mycroft studied him, looking for the lie on Sherlock’s face. When he didn’t find it, he subsided back in his chair. “Very well. There are certain clothes you will wear. Mrs. Hudson has been sent to procure them and then…”

“When will it happen?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

Sherlock accepted that with a nod. His stomach pitched and roiled, cycling between eagerness and anxiety, and he didn’t think he’d be able to concentrate on anything between now and tomorrow afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that Sherlock is 100% down with what's gonna happen. Also, please keep in mind that this will be a scenting, Sherlock is still underage, and nothing explicitly sexual will happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to leave the tags as they were. I've left what happens ambiguous enough that you can interpret whatever you want.

The clothes Mrs. Hudson got for Sherlock to wear were loose cotton, very thin but not entirely transparent. The wide collar gaped around Sherlock’s shoulders and left his neck and collarbone bare while the sleeves ended at his elbows, leaving his forearms and wrists exposed. The trousers were just as thin and loose and truncated, ending below Sherlock’s knees and exposing his naked calves and ankles.

After a lifetime of wearing clothing which he was laced into, that buttoned at the neck, wrist, and ankle, the entire outfit felt incredibly indecent. Sherlock couldn’t imagine letting anyone see him in this, much less John.

But John would be seeing him in this, in just a few short hours. Sherlock knew he was dressed with the goal of scenting in mind and so all his scent glands must be visible, but he hadn’t realized just how _naked_ he would have to be.

Not that he was actually naked. He was clothed. But…

Well.

“This should be part of your trousseau.” Mrs. Hudson said as she fussed over Sherlock’s hair in the mirror. He’d bathed earlier with an unscented soap and scrubbed himself clean of any scents except his own, and now Mrs. Hudson seemed to be aware of his growing nerves. She prattled about this and that while she helped him get ready, talking about anything except what was about to happen.

“My trousseau?”

“Oh, yes. Once you have your heat and the wedding date is set, we’ll have a whole round of tailors come to see you and put together your trousseau. They’ll make you all sorts of lovely, skimpy things for John to see you in after you’re married. It’s a shame that he’ll have already seen you in this outfit,” She plucked at the collar and twitched it until the neckline draped evenly, exposing each shoulder, “but there will be plenty of others. I once saw the Lady Collier’s trousseau and…”

Sherlock didn’t listen as Mrs. Hudson went on to describe the elaborate elegance of the Lady Collier’s trousseau. He fingered the soft, silky material of his tunic which flowed through his touch like water and was edged with a delicate working of lace. A hot rush went through him when he realized that this was the type of outfit he would wear on a wedding night. He would have a whole wardrobe of these outfits made for him, for the express purpose of having John tear them off of him every night.

Sherlock felt dizzy. He hoped he didn’t get a nosebleed. The blood would stain the white clothes.

“You’ve nothing to worry about, dear.” Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek, mistaking Sherlock’s silence for tension. “You look wonderful. John will lose his head over you.”

Sherlock doubted that. He couldn’t imagine John ever losing his head over him.

“We’ve a while yet before John arrives. Have some tea. It’ll settle your nerves.”

Sherlock didn’t want tea. He didn’t think it would settle his nerves and he was afraid if he drank too much he would have to urinate while John scented him. How humiliating would that be? He took the cup, though, because it was easier than arguing with Mrs. Hudson and studied the swirling, brown depths as if they held the answers to all his questions.

Mrs. Hudson flitted around the room, tidying up and setting things to rights before the Alpha arrived. It had been decided that the scenting would take place in Sherlock’s bedroom- it was too scandalous to imagine Sherlock going to John’s bedroom to be scented, and every other place was too public- and she wanted it to look as neat as possible. Sherlock didn’t care either way. He didn’t care if there were crumbs ground into the carpet just so long as this scenting went well. He set his tea aside and tried to quell his rising panic. Mrs. Hudson hummed some song she’d used to sing when Sherlock was small, and it was that which gave Sherlock the comfort to ask-

“What should I do?”

“Hm?” Mrs. Hudson turned, her arms full of Sherlock’s nightclothes which he’d discarded haphazardly before his bath.

“With John. What should I do?” Mrs. Hudson was an Omega. She’d had an Alpha once. Presumably (and Sherlock didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it) she’d been scented by that Alpha a few times. She would know what to expect. This wasn’t something he could ask Mycroft about because Mycroft was his brother. Sherlock did not want to get scenting advice from him.

“I know you’re worried but you’ll be fine, dear. John will know what’s to be done.” Mrs. Hudson finished folding Sherlock’s nightclothes and then sat in a chair across from him. “You look wonderful.” She smiled. “The prettiest Omega he’ll have ever seen. When John arrives, invite him in and then sit on the edge of the bed. You can make small talk if you want, but remember that today’s goal is for John to scent you. Try not to distract him.”

Sherlock nodded. “And then what?”

“And then…let John scent you. He will tell you what he wants you to do. I wish I could offer better advice,” Mrs. Hudson placated when Sherlock gave her an annoyed glare, “but every Alpha is different. Some want their Omega to take the initiative, and others hate that. Some want to be in charge the entire time, and others see it as a give-and-take encounter. It just depends.” She helplessly spread her hands. “You will have to rely on John to instruct you.”

Sherlock didn’t like going into the scenting not having a firm plan. He didn’t know what else was to be done. But he trusted John. He knew he would be safe with John. And surely John wouldn’t laugh at him if he made a mistake. Maybe they could laugh together.

He blew out a breath. “Alright.”

“You’ll be fine?”

“Of course.” Sherlock knew he had nothing to fear from John.

Mrs. Hudson hesitated, weighing her next words, then said, “Would you prefer for me to stay with you during the scenting? It’s not strictly allowed but no one would have to know. If it would put you more at ease…”

“_No_.” Sherlock did not want his nanny watching his future Alpha scent him. He may have never been scented by an Alpha before (Mummy didn’t count) but he knew it was a very private, intimate moment. The scentings he’d read about in books made it abundantly clear that each party got something out of the arrangement. Not that Sherlock expected anything like that to come about with John.

“Very well.” Mrs. Hudson whisked his tea away and set aside the tray for a maid to pick up. She was just closing the wardrobe when there was a soft, discreet knock at the door.

John.

“I’ll be in the next room if you need me. Either of you.” Mrs. Hudson said before she left, retreating to her own room and closing the door behind her.

Sherlock was all alone.

He started up and was halfway across the room before he remembered what he was wearing. What if John wasn’t alone in the corridor? Sherlock flinched at the idea of opening the door and exposing himself.

“John?” He called.

“Yes. It’s me.”

“Are you alone?”

There was a considerable pause. “Yes…”

Sherlock relaxed and stepped closer to the door. Before he reached it John called-

“May I please come in?”

Sherlock stopped short. So formal. It was almost as if John had never been in his bedroom before. Sherlock supposed the current circumstances were to blame for John’s stiffness and he found himself mirroring John’s formality without conscious thought.

“Yes, you may come in.”

The door opening brought with it a burst of butterflies in Sherlock’s stomach which fluttered beneath his ribs and beat against his lungs. John wasn’t wearing any sort of outfit like Sherlock’s, but normal day clothes. Sherlock felt at a disadvantage immediately. It wasn’t fair that he had to wear this while John got to be fully clothed.

John closed and locked the door and the click of the lock was loud in the silence. Sherlock jumped when the latch caught, then called himself 18 different kinds of stupid. Of course John would lock the door. They were about to…John was going to…

Sherlock wet his lips, his butterflies undergoing a sudden metamorphosis into an entirely different creature.

John turned and looked at him. Sherlock saw his eyes widen, rapidly sweeping up and down Sherlock’s body a few times, before John tore his gaze away and stared fixedly at the far wall. Sherlock’s spirits sank.

He looked ridiculous in this outfit. It was clingy and tight and probably made him look like a scarecrow. John hated it. Sherlock felt suddenly hopelessly unsure and unprepared. He wished he was in his own clothes. He would be better prepared to face John and this situation if he weren’t half-naked.

For once in his life, Sherlock was at total loss for words. He didn’t know what to say. Not a single thing. He wanted to fill the awkward silence with something banal and easy, something that would make them both laugh and break the tension, but nothing came to mind.

John was ignoring him. He was still staring at the far wall. He hadn’t even properly greeted Sherlock yet.

Sherlock grasped at straws. He cleared his throat and John’s eyes jumped to him- then just as quickly moved away. “How are you today, John?”

“I’m fi-“ John broke off to cough. “Yeah. I’m…I’m fine.”

Sherlock waited, but John didn’t seem inclined to say anything else. “I’m fine as well.”

John nodded. “Good. That’s good.” He gave a very strained smile but it wasn’t even aimed at Sherlock. Once again, his entire focus was on the wall behind him. Sherlock almost turned around to find out what was so fascinating but he knew John was just trying to avoid looking at him.

Thankfully, he remembered Mrs. Hudson’s advice and paced his way to the bed and sat down on the edge. Maybe this is what John had been waiting for? Maybe Sherlock was supposed to have been waiting for him there? And John didn’t know how to tell Sherlock what to do without sounding bossy? He knew Sherlock hated it when John got bossy.

It seemed not.

John made no move to get closer. If anything, he seemed even more discomfited now that Sherlock was sat on the bed. He was rooted to the floor. His eyes were fixed on the wall as if his life depended on it.

The minutes stretched out. Sherlock dangled his feet above the carpet and counted off the seconds in his head.

“How shall we begin?” Sherlock finally asked when he couldn’t take anymore. He felt ready to scream. Almost all of his excitement from earlier was gone, squashed by John’s lackluster attendance. None of those books had covered this sort of scenario: when one’s Alpha was entirely indifferent.

“Um.” John cleared his throat and frowned. “Sherlock. Listen. Did…did Mycroft tell you about this? He, uhm, told you what we’d be doing?”

Sherlock gaped. Why the hell else did John think Sherlock was dressed up like this? “Yes.”

“Right. Yeah. Good. So…so you know that we’ll be scenting each other and that I’ll need to…touch you. A few times. Yeah? And we’ll be, I’ll rub our cheeks together, and-“

“I know what happens during a scenting.” Sherlock snapped, annoyed with John’s stammering explanation and just ready for him to get on with it. None of this was helping. It was just delaying the inevitable.

“Yes, but…if you want me to stop at any point, tell me. I promise I won’t get mad, alright? You won’t offend me or ruin anything. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. We’ll figure something else out.”

“Alright.” That didn’t sound promising. Sherlock felt a flutter of worry and wondered if he’d gotten something wrong about what took place during a scenting. Those books had made it seem as if the Omegas thoroughly enjoyed it (he blushed when he remembered some of the graphic descriptions of just how _thoroughly_). John made it sound like a type of torture to be endured.

John seemed to be debating with himself, visibly swaying, but he finally sighed and slowly, reluctantly crossed the room. He stopped when he was in front of Sherlock and Sherlock craned his neck to look up at him. Being this close to John was always a treat. Even with lingering anxiety, Sherlock could appreciate how handsome John was. He curled his fingers in the soft down of his duvet to keep his hands to himself.

“Tell me to stop whenever you want.” John didn’t seem happy to be here. He looked like he was ready to get this over and done with. The last remnants of Sherlock’s anticipation faded away. “If I do something you don’t like, if anything’s uncomfortable, tell me and I’ll stop.”

Sherlock wished he’d asked Mrs. Hudson to stay. “Yes, John.”

“Alright. Close your eyes.”

Sherlock wanted to ask why but he bit his tongue and obediently closed his eyes. He waited in darkness for John to start, hyperaware of everything around him now that he could no longer see. He heard his own heartbeat which skipped in jittery excitement. His eyelashes fluttered against the tops of his cheeks. The bed was soft and warm beneath him and John was a solid presence at his front.

He jumped at the first touch of John’s fingers stroking against his temple.

“Alright?” John asked and when Sherlock nodded, John ran his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair. He carded both hands through his curls, over and over, and Sherlock was abruptly glad that Mrs. Hudson had insisted on brushing his hair before this encounter. His curls flowed like water through John’s fingers. It was soothing, lulling, and Sherlock found himself moving with each pass, his head tilting further and further back until his neck was exposed. He could feel cool air against his skin which raised goosebumps along his exposed arms and legs.

“Is this fine?”

“Mm-hm.” Sherlock already felt sleepy, drugged. He could hear John breathing, feel the blood rushing through his own body, but he felt somewhat removed, spinning high and distant like a cloud. His feet weren’t touching the floor and even though his fingers were gripping at the duvet, he didn’t feel it anymore.

He liked John touching him. He’d never thought his scalp could be so sensitive but nearly every sweep of John’s hand made Sherlock want to shudder and he was unprepared for John to move closer and bury his nose at the top of Sherlock’s head. He felt John inhale, knew there were curls tickling his face and nose, and this time Sherlock did shudder.

John paused, his hands going still in Sherlock’s hair, and the mood fractured somewhat.

“Sorry.” Sherlock whispered, suddenly embarrassed at his reaction. “Sorry. It’s fine. I’m fine. You don’t have to stop.”

“Are you sure?” John sounded suspicious. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”

Sherlock shook his head and he could feel where John’s fingers caught in his hair, tugging gently. “No. I’m fine.”

John waited, but when Sherlock didn’t pull away, seemed to take Sherlock’s word for it. He started again, taking another inhale against Sherlock’s hair, then dragging his cheek over the crown of Sherlock’s head. He dipped down, brushing their left cheeks together and the scent of Alpha accosted Sherlock’s nose. Thick and aromatic, tinged with musk and a certain peppery smell that he always associated with John. Sherlock took a deep breath, his lungs hitching on the inhale. John’s hands cradled the back of his head to keep him in place as John brushed their cheeks together again. The spinning feeling was back. Sherlock’s stomach swooped as if he were standing at the very top of the palace and gazing at the ground far, far below. It felt so natural that the caress should end with a kiss- but it didn’t. John switched sides. He rubbed against Sherlock’s other cheek and Sherlock’s lips parted with disappointment. He felt like he was missing out on something important.

John knelt in front of him and it was then that Sherlock realized he was grasping at John’s arms, fingers digging into John’s flesh. John didn’t tell him to stop, or act like he even noticed. His fingers were still threaded through Sherlock’s hair. Every once in a while he clenched around Sherlock’s curls, fingernails dragging lightly over his scalp. Sherlock shuddered again.

He was trembling. Little shudders wracked the muscles in Sherlock’s thighs, making them jump, and his stomach flexed every time he felt John take a breath against his skin. He wanted John to kiss him. He craved it. He wondered if John would pull away from him if he tried to kiss him and decided it wasn’t worth the risk.

Sherlock was still trembling when John cupped his cheeks, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. He tilted Sherlock’s head to the side to rub his cheek against Sherlock’s neck and his stubble scratched at Sherlock’s sensitive skin-

Sherlock moaned.

He tried to catch the sound as soon as it escaped his lips…but it was too late.

John froze against him. Sherlock was glad his eyes were closed because he didn’t want to see the expression on John’s face.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispered, mortified. What an uncouth sound to make. And at this moment! “I’m so sorry, John. I…I didn’t mean to…”

“Did I hurt you?” John asked hesitantly, so solicitous and concerned and Sherlock wanted to die.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “No. You didn’t hurt me.” He gripped at John’s arms harder.

“It’s fine, Sherlock.” John murmured, and Sherlock nodded, even though he didn’t know what John was talking about or what was fine. John rubbed against his neck again, this time even slower and gentler. Sherlock kept his lips clamped closed and the moan was strangled in his throat, but his entire lower body tightened. Tingles raced from his neck, spreading across his chest, and trickled down. It felt so good. Exhilarating in a way that nothing in his life had ever been. Sherlock took a shaky breath through his nose, embarrassed at how he was behaving and hoping John wasn’t able to guess the reason why.

John’s hands were at his shoulders, thumbs almost absently stroking the exposed skin. Sherlock wondered how much better this would feel if John turned his head and kissed his neck. Trailed kisses down to his shoulder, replaced his hands with his mouth. The thought raced through Sherlock like wildfire and it took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from squirming at every touch as John continued to scent his neck. Puffs of air tickled Sherlock’s skin as John breathed and every breath Sherlock took was inundated with Alpha, rich and thick and-

John’s touch was suddenly gone. Sherlock swayed forward, dismayed at the loss, and his eyes snapped open. He had to blink a few times to clear his fuzzy vision and when he finally did, John gave him a smile. He pried Sherlock’s hands off of his arms and brought them up so he could scent at his wrists. It was a familiar caress. It grounded Sherlock and made the spinning in his head stop.

“You’re beautiful.” John murmured. He looked more relaxed than he had earlier, and he no longer looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else. “You’re doing so well. Do you want me to stop?”

“N-no. Please. You can…carry on.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes."

John nodded. “Alright, then.” And he reached for Sherlock, drawing him closer.

Sherlock let John move him however he wanted and it wasn’t until minutes later, when John was hugging him, holding Sherlock to his chest and stroking his hands up and down Sherlock’s spine while he scented at his neck again, that something awful happened: Sherlock realized he was aroused. He hadn’t even been aware of the growing feelings, too busy enjoying the fuzzy, spinning sensation that John’s scenting gave him, but when he realized he was hard- and that the thin material of his outfit did nothing to hide his state, if anything, it emphasized it- Sherlock stiffened in John’s embrace. He knew John could feel it. There was no way he couldn’t.

Sherlock wanted to die from mortification.

Earlier, he had been able to control himself. But this- being so close to his Alpha and being scented and held and touched by the person he’d spent so many nights fantasizing about- was too much. His clothes were no barrier to John’s touch. The silk made it feel as if John was touching his actual skin, running his hands up and down his back with no barrier between them.

Sherlock gave a choking gasp and tightened his fingers in John’s hair- and when had his hands gotten in John’s hair? When did he do that?

“I’m sorry.” He managed to whisper and the whole thing was terrible because John wasn’t aroused. The knowledge hit Sherlock hard. All of this scenting and touching and John wasn’t in the least affected. It was just Sherlock. Even that did nothing to blot out Sherlock’s arousal because he was so close to John, in a way he had never been before but one he had always wanted, and he was helpless to the way his body reacted. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” He repeated, and felt like crying with shame.

“It’s fine, Sherlock.” John murmured back. “It’s all fine.”

It wasn’t fine. There was nothing fine about this. Sherlock took a breath that was closer to a pant as John nuzzled beneath his ear with his nose. Sherlock felt himself _throb_.

“I’m going to stop. Alright? Let’s stop, Sherlock.” John sounded so rational and in control, while Sherlock was falling to pieces. He felt like he was about to splinter into tiny shards and never be put back together again.

John helped Sherlock detach his fingers from John’s hair and then sat back on his heels in front of Sherlock. He looked…wonderful. John’s hair was mussed and sticking up from where Sherlock had ran his fingers through it and there was a pink flush on his cheeks. His lips were red and parted as he breathed and when Sherlock met his eyes, John’s were dark and luminous, the pupils swallowed up with black.

Later, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to recall what made him act the way he did. He would blame it on instinct, on the heat of the moment of being scented by an Alpha (he’d heard many Omegas use that excuse and it seemed like a widely accepted one). But the reality was there hadn’t been any rational thought when Sherlock swayed forward and captured John’s lips with his own in an awkward, rather off-balance kiss.

John inhaled sharply and stiffened. Sherlock had a moment to worry he’d done the wrong thing- before John melted into the kiss. His hands dove into Sherlock’s hair and tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss, and that was all the encouragement Sherlock needed to surge against John. He pressed himself against him, as much as he could, thighs tightening around John’s sides and Sherlock knew he was moaning into the kiss but he couldn’t stop himself or even care. Not when John was kissing him back, kissing him like Sherlock had always wanted to be kissed. Like how he’d dreamed of being kissed by John. John’s breaths were harsh against Sherlock’s cheek but his touch was still gentle.

“John-“ Sherlock breathed his name into the kiss, reminding himself this was real and not a figment of his fevered imaginings when he was alone in his room beneath the duvet. He was delighted- wanted to crow with triumph- when he felt John shiver against him, his hands momentarily tightening in Sherlock’s hair. It was the response Sherlock had wanted from him earlier and he relished the thrill of eliciting a reaction from John.

Sherlock let his hands roam- over John’s shoulders and back, his arms. John felt perfect. Everything was wonderful. Sherlock felt like he was flying again, wild and reckless. His entire body was alight with tingles that arched through him like electricity, singing through his veins and raising the hairs on his arms and legs. He gasped into their kiss, panting through his nose, and felt himself burning wildly with sweetly painful arousal. John moved closer and his stomach pressed against where Sherlock was hard and wanting and Sherlock gasped, his lips going lax against John’s as his hips stuttered-

John suddenly yanked himself away and only his arms coming up to catch at Sherlock kept him from falling off the bed. “_Wehavetostop_.”

Sherlock was dazed. Disoriented. His entire body was shaking, alight with curtailed pleasure. He blinked at John, his lips throbbing. “What?”

John looked as if the sight of Sherlock pained him. He closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath. He caught at Sherlock’s hands and removed them from his shoulders.

“We have to stop. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…that was…a mistake.”

“A…mistake?” It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice cold water over Sherlock’s head. Some of his horror must have been evident in his voice because John almost panicked in his rush to explain.

“No. No, no, no!” John cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands and forced him to meet his eyes. “No. Sherlock. I misspoke. That wasn’t a mistake. That was…"

Sherlock gazed at him hopefully. He didn’t think he could take it if John said something derogatory.

“It was amazing. You were amazing.”

Sherlock felt a frisson of hope. “I was?”

“Yes. But that still doesn’t mean…I wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“I didn’t mind you doing that.” Sherlock offered shyly and John’s eyes darkened, flicking down to look at Sherlock’s lips.

“Um. That doesn’t. We still. Shouldn’t have.”

“It was my idea.” Sherlock reminded him. “And…I enjoyed it.”

John looked torn at Sherlock’s confession, but he finally relented, mumbling, “I enjoyed it too.”

Sherlock waited for John to kiss him again. He’d lost track of how many times he’d been kissed at this point. He wondered if he should count the kisses he and John had just shared as one long, continuous kiss, or individual kisses? It made what they’d just shared trivial to count it as only one, and Sherlock was trying to add it all up in his head when John brushed their lips together in pantomime of the easy kisses he had given Sherlock in the past.

Sherlock opened his lips against John’s and all of the arousal which had faded in the interim came flooding back. His skin pulled taut, hurting, and Sherlock reached for John wanting the closeness they’d had earlier. John was solid, though, and remained immovable, keeping a clear space between their bodies that was almost intolerable. Sherlock huffed unhappily into their kiss and made to slide off the bed so he could get closer but John’s hands came up and grabbed at his thighs, keeping him on the bed and pressed against the mattress. John’s touch was shocking through the thin material of Sherlock’s outfit, wonderful. Without thinking, Sherlock spread his legs wider, tentatively touching John’s lips with his tongue-

“Gods above!” John jerked away from him and stumbled to his feet. He backed away from Sherlock who was still reaching for him, wondering what he’d done wrong, and he must have looked as confused as he felt because John covered his eyes with his hand and muttered something Sherlock didn’t catch.

“J-John?”

“I have to go. It’s already been an hour. I wasn’t supposed to stay this long so I have to go. Now.” John babbled. His chest heaved with every breath and Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes. “If I’m here any longer your brother may break the door down.”

Thinking of his brother was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do at the moment.

“Oh.” Sherlock licked his lips. They felt swollen and he wanted to rush to the mirror and see how he looked after he’d been so meticulously kissed by John. He wondered if he looked different. He felt different. “Very well.”

“I can’t stay here any longer.”

“Yes, you said that.”

“Right.” John beat a hasty retreat to the door, but thought better of it before he left. “Are you alright?” He leveled Sherlock with a serious look which Sherlock felt almost as keenly as John’s kisses.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock smiled. “I’ve never been better, John.” He watched, perplexed, as John absorbed those words and seemed to sway forward, as if drawn back to the bed, before he jerked open the door and hurried out into the corridor.

* * *

“How did it go?”

Stamford had been waiting for John outside Sherlock’s bedroom and he fell into step beside him as they made their way back to John’s rooms. John glanced at Stamford, then away. He didn’t want Stamford to guess the direction of his thoughts.

The way Sherlock had looked, too much pale skin, practically naked despite that outfit. The scent of Sherlock and the awareness that the longer John had scented Sherlock, the more aroused the Omega became until he was fully hard, pressed against John as they kissed and how John hadn’t wanted to stop, how he’d wanted to keep going and see if he could make Sherlock-

John staggered but quickly regained his footing and increased his pace. He needed to put as much distance between himself and Sherlock as possible. He’d lost his head with Sherlock today and guilt over what he had done was warring with happiness and pride over the way Sherlock had reacted to him. John needed to be alone before he was able to sort things out.

“It was...fine.”

* * *

Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door and then poked her head around the casing. “Hoo-hoo!” Her eyes landed on Sherlock still sat on the edge of the bed and she gave an encouraging smile. Sherlock had thrown the windows wide after John had left but he could still smell their combined scents in the air. He hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t guess what they’d been up to.

“Well?” She asked. “How did it go?”

How did it go?

Sherlock could still smell John. The open windows made no difference because John’s scent clung to his skin and clothes. He could smell him every time he inhaled and it made his body react, burning for more.

He thought of how John had felt against him, his hands, his body. All over. The kisses they’d shared. The way John had looked at him. The fire that had infected Sherlock’s veins and even now was simmering beneath the surface, ready for a spark to ignite the whole conflagration again.

Sherlock shrugged and schooled his face into a mask of impassivity. “It was fine.”

* * *

That night, Sherlock dreamed of John and scenting and heat. He woke sweaty and disoriented and barely touched himself before spending in the sheets. He spent the rest of the night trying to distract himself, and failing.

He had his first heat two days later.


End file.
